Seducing the Governess (10 page)

Yet she could almost hear Claire Rogers admonishing her that it was a nurse’s place to sleep near the children. If Mercy served in both capacities, Lord Ashby might not ever hire a proper nurse for Emmaline.

As needy as the child was, Mercy did not want to serve as nursemaid, giving baths, doing laundry, and seeing to meals for the entire duration of her employment here. There would be enough to do to prepare lessons for the girl.

Ignoring Mr. Bassett’s hostile glare, she rifled through the kitchen cupboards and located a tray in a storage area. Taking it to the table, she placed Emmaline’s bowl as well as her own on it. “Come with me, Emmaline,” she said.

“Where’re you off to, miss?” Bassett asked in a gruff tone.

Mercy girded herself with the authority she could only assume she had. “We shall be taking our meals in the nursery, Mr. Bassett.”

The thickly built man stood. He was a bit taller than Lord Ashby, and a great deal meatier. When he sent Mercy a fierce frown, she took a step back. “Why would you want to eat up there when you can sit here in the warm kitchen? With us?”

Mercy stood her ground. Thanks to Claire Rogers, she knew what was correct and proper, but that didn’t prevent her heart from thudding uncomfortably in her chest. “Surely you do not take offense, Mr. Bassett. Young ladies—
the nieces of earls
—do not take their meals in kitchens.”

She’d never before confronted anyone, certainly not a burly, red-faced stranger who seemed more than a bit hostile toward her. “From n-now on, Emmaline and I shall be eating in the nursery.” She glanced around and looked at every one of the men’s faces. “Every meal, unless otherwise specified.”

“Now, you can’t be changing all our ways here, miss,” Mr. Bassett protested, backing down slightly, which helped to bolster Mercy’s courage. She hoped it indicated that the man was more mouth than trousers, as her mother would have said. Or perhaps he held back because he did not yet have clear orders from the earl.

“Our way has been working well for the past month, ever since we got here. So I don’t see why you need to change anything. Especially not when carting all your meals upstairs adds more duties to what the lads already must do.”

Mercy refused to be intimidated. “I don’t expect you to see why, but that is how Lady Emmaline will be taking her meals in future. And there may be other changes as well.”

Lifting the tray, she avoided Mr. Bassett’s eyes and instructed Emmaline to come away from the table. The little girl stepped over the bench without argument and accompanied Mercy out of the kitchen. Mercy felt a bit dazed after her little confrontation with Mr. Bassett, so she proceeded as quietly as Emmaline, past the cavernous medieval hall near the much smaller drawing room, where the door stood open.

Inside was Lord Ashby, who had made a startling change in his appearance since putting on more formal clothes. Despite his fine attire, Mercy could still feel an underlying roughness to his edges, but now she noted yet another dimension to his bearing.

He was every bit the lord and master of Ashby Hall. He was now an imposing figure in a dark coat and waistcoat, with a crisp-looking collar and his neck cloth tied perfectly below his square chin. In spite of his obvious potency, Mercy knew her father would never have approved of him as a suitor—not that Lord Ashby would ever court her. But Reverend Franklin quickly would have detected the earl’s lack of piety and disapproved of his apparent disdain for propriety. Her father would have turned over in his grave if he’d seen her pulling off the man’s boot in the middle of the road.

Or speaking to him in the insolent manner that was becoming such a habit. A most improper one.

Lord Ashby took no notice of her and Emmaline as they hesitated momentarily, for he was speaking to a fashionable young lady who wore an expensive rose-colored pelisse with cream lace and a matching hat. Even her shoes that peeked out from beneath her skirts radiated extensive wealth.

Mercy felt a pang of something exceedingly unpleasant, a feeling she couldn’t quite place. Surely it was not envy, for she hadn’t a jealous bone in her body. She’d been on friendly terms with the wealthy members of the parish, including Squire Claybrook’s daughters, and had never coveted their clothes or any of their possessions.

And yet the attention being given the attractive young woman by Emmaline’s uncle made Mercy feel distinctly tense. No, not tense, exactly. She could not quite define how it made her feel.

Perhaps it was the woman’s blatantly opulent attire that bothered her. Such ostentation served no purpose beyond demonstrating a person’s wealth, which was no measure of one’s worth. Mercy had never aspired to such a wardrobe, although owning a few gowns that complemented her coloring and her figure would not have been amiss. But her father had frowned upon any sort of vanity—as much as he’d abhorred impropriety—and Mercy’s gowns reflected his tastes.

Lord Ashby was fully engaged by the beautiful lady, whose narrow-brimmed hat bobbed as she spoke in a quiet tone. He must have gotten dressed quite quickly in order to receive his guests—and Mercy felt her face heat at the thought of seeing his bare chest. Of course he had not completely disrobed in the kitchen, but she knew he had to have removed his clothes nearby, possibly in plain sight of anyone who might pass by.

Mercy had found him even more imposing as he’d absently unfastened the buttons on his shirt. She still felt a tingling awareness of his purely male intensity—of the power and strength of his body and the intractable force of his will.

She heard her father’s stern voice in her head.
Such useless nonsense, Mercy. Get on with your work.

She started up the stairs. “Who are those people with your uncle?” she asked Emmaline

“I don’t know,” the child replied.

Which was just as well, for Lord Ashby’s guests were none of Mercy’s concern. She should not have been anywhere near the drawing room in the first place, and would not have been if proper protocol had been followed. There was a servants’ staircase off the kitchen, and they should have used it.

But she’d have remained within Mr. Bassett’s sights for far too long if she’d taken that route. And she had to admit she was a coward at heart.

She and Emmaline went up to the nursery, and Mercy put thoughts of Lord Ashby from her mind. Her reaction to the man was entirely improper, and she knew better. Besides, Emmaline was in need of her attention.

As they finished eating their breakfast, Mercy instructed her young charge. “ ’Tis not really proper for a young lady of your standing to dine with the servants, Emmaline,” she said gently.

Emmaline did not respond.

“I am sure they are all fine men, but you must always be mindful that you are the lady of the house.”

Emmaline looked up at Mercy with puzzlement in her eyes.

“You are an earl’s daughter—the current earl’s niece. There is some decorum which must be followed.”

The girl shrugged, and Emmaline decided she needed to write to Claire for a few more specifics on protocol. Claire’s charges were the children of a viscount, but Mercy didn’t think their code of behavior would be any different from what would be expected of Emmaline.

She did not want Emmaline to be confined by an excessive number of rules, though. Mercy had lived with far too many of them throughout her twenty-three years.

And yet, at the moment, she found she could not even abide by the simplest one—to keep a civil tongue in her head.

Chapter 12

A
s Nash changed clothes, it occurred to him that the game had changed since he’d last wooed a woman. Granted, his past amorous campaigns had not been about finding a wife, but about luring a willing woman to his bed.

Helene Carew might agree to wed and bed him, but Nash didn’t think she’d ever be particularly willing. Not when she couldn’t even look at him.

Perhaps the marriage would succeed if he made sure she did not have to look at him too often. He would douse the candles in their chamber when he bedded her, and after he got her with child a time or two, he could find himself some living quarters and absent himself from Ashby Hall. No doubt his countess would be capable of seeing to the raising of his heir. Miss Carew was likely a competent sort, if a bit dull.

He could not dwell on thoughts of the happy life his parents had made for themselves at Ashby Hall, or the affection they’d openly displayed for each other, for their sons to see. Such a marriage was not in Nash’s future.

Feeling disgruntled by the duty that had been imposed upon him, he left the hall and started walking. Unconsciously, he headed toward the chapel.

It was an ancient little stone building, a remnant of a flurry of pastoral building projects at Ashby from the sixteenth century. Hoyt and Arthur were buried in the tidy churchyard beyond the chapel, as well as Nash’s parents and many previous generations of Farrises.

When Nash arrived, he was appalled to see what a neglected mess it was. His parents had wed in that chapel. So had Hoyt and Joanna. There was a history here that was being slowly decimated by time.

The enormous task and responsibility of restoring the Ashby estate struck Nash full force, and he recognized fully now that he had no choice but to court Helene Carew. He had no business thinking about the voluptuous warmth of Mercy Franklin’s body. At least, he could not think about Mercy until after he’d courted, wedded, and bedded Miss Carew. After he had an heir on the way, he doubted his wife would care much where he chose to bestow his affections.

Fortunately, Helene was not a hag or giggling minnow. She was a perfectly acceptable female specimen, one who would make a decent sort of wife, if not a particularly tender one.

It was her money that had the power to seduce him, not her beauty or her impeccable manners.

As Nash walked, he thought of all that could be done with Carew funds. He hoped Horace Carew would not try to dictate how Nash used the dowry. He had a feeling the man might be a meddler, especially when it came to money . . . and his daughter.

Sir William Metcalf would surely be able to advise Nash on the best way to build up his herd. Sir Will always knew who had the best lambs to sell, and he could tell Nash what price he ought to pay for them.

While he slowly replenished the herd, the Hall itself needed far more serious attention than his men had given it to date. It was obvious that the former housekeeper had done little more than keep her own quarters and Emmaline’s in order.

None of his men knew anything about running a household. Childers might be surly, but he could cook army fare, and Lowell had experience in keeping books, though he seemed a bit too anxious to get Ashby back on its feet and profitable.

As often as Nash had told him his expectations were unrealistic, Lowell had insisted they would manage to show a profit by year’s end.

The men who’d come to Ashby with Nash were grateful to have a home and were willing to perform whatever tasks were assigned to them. But someone had to know what needed doing.

Bassett had taken charge of the younger men, but he’d spent most of his life in the army, and that was what he knew. He had not yet realized that Ashby Hall was not a barracks, with men engaging in wrestling matches, races, and swordplay to stay busy and fit between battles. There was actual work to be done in the house.

If only Grainger were not quite so elderly, the old butler might have a hand in directing the work that needed to be done. But he was absentminded at best, spending countless hours polishing Ashby silver. He barely remembered the day Hoyt was killed. Nash kept him on only because he suspected the old retainer had nowhere else to go. Just like the rest of his men.

What Ashby Hall needed was an experienced housekeeper, if Nash was going to host any sort of a party there. But he didn’t know of any competent woman who would accept her board and lodgings as sole payment for her services. And until the estate had sufficient meat and wool to sell, there would be no other payment.

It occurred to Nash that Miss Franklin might be able to give her assistance in this area. As a vicar’s daughter, she must have observed—or even participated in—some basic housekeeping tasks. Maybe he ought to have Lowell ask her what she thought needed to be done.

But the thought of providing Philip Lowell with a reason for seeking out the comely governess did not sit well. Nash decided to see to it himself as soon as the occasion presented itself.

He walked into the cemetery. There was an overgrown, cobbled path that led to an ancient vault, in which the earliest earls and their families were entombed. More recently, the Ashby earls had taken to less grandiose graves. He located Hoyt’s monument, and then Arthur’s, flanking the graves of their parents, with their wives beside them.

Dropping down on one knee beside Hoyt’s headstone, Nash brushed away a few dried leaves and tried to understand why he was the one who had been left alive, when all of them were gone. He bowed his head and silently vowed to find out exactly what had happened to Hoyt and to do whatever was necessary to preserve his family line. He would carry on, no matter what he had to do to make Ashby the earldom it once was.

He left the cemetery and returned to the house, where he saw Emmaline with her governess. They were walking together and talking quietly—or it seemed Miss Franklin was talking and Emmaline listening.

They wore shawls over their dresses, but their heads were bare. Miss Franklin’s hair was arranged in her usual neat knot at the back of her neck, and she had done something pleasing with Emmaline’s hair—put it in a long plait that was held together at the end with a blue ribbon. The child looked almost relaxed in her governess’s presence, reaching up to slip her small hand into that of Miss Franklin’s, and Nash fancied that his niece might have enjoyed such walks with her mother had she survived the birth of her second bairn.

Perhaps she’d ridden on her father’s shoulders in this garden lane, the way Nash and his brothers had done with their own father.

He felt the powerful pang of grief that had somehow escaped him as he knelt beside the graves in the cemetery, and abruptly turned away from his niece and her governess. He headed for the house, hoping Parker would be ready to massage the knots out of his neck and shoulders.

Once Mercy had sorted out an arrangement for Harper or Roarke to bring their meals to the nursery, she and Emmaline settled into a routine. A very busy regimen of lessons and exercise—usually outdoors.

But even after a few days together, the little girl remained reserved, though Mercy felt she was making some progress.

There had to be a way to break through the invisible walls with which Emmy had surrounded herself. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind, other than allowing her to read more of Susanna’s journal. That had piqued Emmaline’s interest as nothing else Mercy had yet seen.

But Mercy was still not ready for that. Every night while getting ready for bed, she’d thought about picking up the diary, but had not been able to face it. But she would, soon.

She didn’t understand why Emmaline was so interested in the diary, unless it was because Susanna’s writing was more personal than the printed books in the schoolroom. Emmaline had had no difficulty reading Susanna’s words, but Mercy knew the concepts were far too advanced for a child Emmaline’s age. Which was why she’d closed the book that first night at Ashby Hall, and put it away in the drawer of the table at her bedside.

Thinking back on her days at St. Martin’s, Mercy recalled her own childhood and the activities she’d enjoyed with friends. That was key—she had not spent a lot of time alone. She’d had chores to do, and prayers. And she’d been allowed to have friends. Playmates.

Perhaps that was the solution.

“Emmaline, do you know of any other children who live nearby?”

“No, miss.”

No, of course she wouldn’t. Mercy suspected that the child’s former nurse had been remiss, or perhaps simply unsociable, for Emmaline should have had contact with some of the neighboring children.

Claire Rogers had mentioned frequent, pleasant outings with her children in London, and meeting playmates in various parks near their home. Mercy wondered if Lord Ashby knew of any families with children nearby.

She knew she should not feel even the slightest twinge of anticipation at the thought of seeking out her employer, especially since she’d made such a point of avoiding him. Instead of speaking to Lord Ashby about neighboring children, Mercy decided that church was the answer. The vicar or his wife would surely know who Emmaline’s playmate prospects were.

As Mercy worked to engage the little girl, she noticed a few minor successes. Emmaline spoke more often, offering more than just a one- or two-word response.

They walked around to the front of the house, just as two horsemen rode up. Lord Ashby and Mr. Lowell.

The earl wore the dark green coat he seemed to favor, and it hugged his broad shoulders like a caress. He had not shaved, so there was a shadow of whiskers on his chin. Mercy felt her breath catch when he made a masterful leap from his horse and came toward them, greeting them with a slight bow. “Miss Franklin . . . Emmaline . . .”

“Good morning, my lord,” Mercy said, sounding ridiculously breathless to her own ears. “We were . . . we’re just taking a short walk.”

“Have you been to the summerhouse yet?” he asked.

“Summerhouse?”

“Aye. An ancient marble pavilion”—he touched her shoulder and turned her to face a tree-lined path—“down there.”

A shudder went through Mercy at his touch, centering deep, inside places she hardly knew existed.

“Shall I show you, Miss Franklin?” Mr. Lowell asked, coming forward.

Lord Ashby handed the steward his reins. “Perhaps I shall escort you myself. Lowell, take the horses to the stable.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mr. Lowell went in one direction, and the earl led them in another. Emmaline tightened her grasp on Mercy’s hand, and Mercy collected herself for their impromptu outing together. Whatever Lord Ashby said to her, she would not respond with any of the impertinence she’d shown him before. Not in front of his niece.

“You are not comfortable around horses, Miss Franklin.” His statement had to have been based on their first interchange when he’d asked her to bring his horse to him.

“No. My father did not find it necessary to keep horses in Underdale. So I am not so very accustomed to them.”

“Underdale is a small town on the coast, is it not?”

“Yes. I could see the sea from my window.”

“Ah. Is there a beach?”

She nodded, pleased that the conversation was moving along in quite the conventional manner. “Yes, there is a lovely long, white, sandy beach.”

The earl looked down at his niece. “What do you think, Emmaline? Do you suppose your governess would ever pull up her skirts and walk barefoot in the sand by the sea?”

Emmy smiled shyly and nodded while Mercy felt her toes curl inside her shoes. Lord Ashby’s tone had turned low and seductive, calling to mind the embarrassing moments when she’d stood barefoot with him, more than half undressed outside her bedroom. Her heart fluttered within her breast.

It seemed her respite was over. He was resolved to making her uncomfortable.

“Perhaps she even dipped her feet into the sea.”

Mindful of Emmaline’s presence, Mercy bit back a sharp set-down. She was perfectly capable of maintaining her poise in order to give the child a creditable example. Even though she felt she might explode.

“Did you . . . swim, Miss Franklin?”

Mercy felt sure he was making an oblique reference to the practice of disrobing down to one’s chemise to swim. “Of course not, my lord. The sea is far too cold at Underdale.”

A change of subject was needed. She pointed toward a long, low hedge. “Emmaline, do you see all those shoots that are just coming up just this side of that hedge?”

“Yes.”

“Those are daffodils, and they will flower, I think, next week.”

“I like daffodils,” Emmaline said, and it seemed to Mercy that their little walk and Lord Ashby’s casual tone did much to ease Emmaline’s stiffness in her uncle’s presence. “May we cut some of them when they flower?” Emmaline asked.

Mercy glanced at Lord Ashby. “If your uncle allows.”

“Of course you may.”

The pavilion came into sight, a circular building with a domed roof. There was a covered colonnade to provide some shelter, but the interior was closed up, and ivy and other vines had grown into its walls.

“It does not appear to have been used in quite some time.”

Lord Ashby stood still, gazing at the building before them. “No. Not in a very long time.”

There were nights when Nash knew it was better to avoid his bed than go up to it, only to wake in the night, feeling his flesh and the room around him burning. Not that anything was actually burning, but the sensations of that day at Hougoumont would not let him be.

He could wish for dreams of Mercy Franklin, but that was a different kind of torment. He’d tried to avoid her, but it was a halfhearted effort at best. He could not resist stealing a glimpse of her fine eyes, her beguiling mouth and tempting curves. No matter how plain her gown or severe her coiffure, the punch of desire hit him every time he caught sight of her.

Nash feared he could not allow her to remain at Ashby Hall, not if he was going to establish a successful marriage. He might have no experience at being a husband, but he had the notion that his wife would not appreciate seeing him lusting after his niece’s governess.